The Fontaine Family
by sarcasticrocker86
Summary: The portrait just hangs there on the wall in the office, leaving any onlooker filled with curiosity. Fontaine? A child? It seems unimaginable. But the portrait shows something more than just a man, woman, and child posing stiffly... just look closer.


"_When you lose your innocence, it is gone forever..."_

Brigid Tenenbaum

* * *

"No, no, NO!" the tiny Frenchman started muttering things in French that Frank Fontaine, Jr. knew had to be words he wouldn't be allowed to say and would probably would have been smacked by his mother for trying.

"Jean-Claude!" Frankie's mother started, "Please—!"

"Madame, I am sorry. But the boy, he will not stand still!"

Frankie rubbed his palms together nervously. It wasn't his fault. The suit was stuffy, his hands were sweaty, the shoes pinched his toes, and he was starting to get a wedgie.

"Frank, stop it," his mother pleaded, irritation stressed in her voice.

Frankie didn't understand why they needed a painted portrait, anyway. For that matter, why did they need an angry Frenchman to do it? To make it more legitimate?

Legitimate. Frankie remembered he hated that word and shoved it aside in his head.

"Maybe we should just take a break," a new, gentle voice suggested. Frankie glanced up to see the owner, Aunt Elaine, smiling encouragingly at him. Frankie returned a relieved grin of his own.

"Fine! We will _wait!_" the painter crossed his arms and muttered some more in French.

Until Frankie's father spoke, "You are being paid by the hour, Raleigh. Now, would you kindly cease the language in front of my son, foreign or no?"

Frankie didn't look at his father as he said those words in the stone cold voice of his. His father was too daunting, almost frightening, when he spoke like that. And the Frenchman thought so, too, because he quickly and quietly said, "Yes, Monsieur Fontaine. I apologize." The Frenchman then quietly began to touch up his brushstrokes, and Frankie caught just a little bit of trembling in them. Frankie almost felt bad for the man.

"Come on, Frankie," Elaine held out a hand to him. "Let's get some air, okay?"

Elaine led him to his house's courtyard in upstate New York. Frankie had lived here for almost a year, ever since his father had been elected mayor of this town. But Frankie missed the Bronx. he didn't understand why they had to leave so badly, since his father had made it such a special point in his campaign that he was from the Bronx. _"A working man, just like you!"_ those posters had said. but Frankie didn't think his father worked too much anymore. Just sat in his office or in the library of the house writing stuff—or at the club on Saturdays. Frankie didn't know what kind of club it was; every time he asked his mother, she would say, "Oh, Frank. It's just a club for grown men." Frankie guessed it was a secret.

He had had a secret club back on his old street. He even had had a tree for a clubhouse. Although it wasn't really a house, just a tree that he put a clubhouse sign on, it was fun to the boy and his friends to spy on neighboring homes and drop water balloons on little girls passing by. All up in that tree. That wonderful, wonderful tree.

"You're not happy here, are you?" Aunt Elaine asked as they settled on the ledge of the fountain at the center of the courtyard.

Frankie looked away from his beautiful aunt's face, her eyes a dreamy, soft brown and red lips with rosy cheeks even when not wearing any kind of make up. His mother's sister, but Frankie felt they were polar opposites: where Elaine was beautiful, soft, and free, his mother was cold, hard, and traditional.

"Frankie?"

"Promise you won't tell?" Frankie said quietly, his cheeks flushed from the excitement of having a prospective secret to share.

Frankie heard his Elaine's soft chuckle. "I promise."

"There's too much water here."

"What?"

"All the lakes, the fountains...we've never lived on the water before."

"You don't like water, Frankie?"

Frankie shook his head. "Papa took me out on his friend's boat last summer. I got sick. Papa was embarrassed, I could tell. But I leaned over too far later, 'cause I was...you know, throwing up, and I fell in..." Frankie shivered at the memory.

Elaine gathered the boy into her arms lovingly. "You don't like to swim, either?"

"Mama tried to teach me once, but I wouldn't go in too far. I didn't want to cover my head. It's scary. You can't breathe, and it's hard to see. I don't like water."

Frankie felt Elaine's head nod in motherly understanding. "But you don't just not like the water. You miss the Bronx."

"Yea. A lot. And Mom wants me to take a—a talking class now."

"A what?"

"You know, to make me talk like the people here? Mom says I have a..."

"Accent?"

"Yea. She says I need to talk like a gentleman. But I like how I talk. How people talk is kind of who they are, aren't they, Aunt Elaine? I don't want to change. But Mama says it'll make Papa happy, so I guess I could try..."

Elaine said no more, but separated from Frankie with a swift franticness. Frankie looked over to see his father approaching.

He didn't look right in the warm afternoon sun; his black suit sucking in the sun like an abyss, his height and bulk almost monstrous, his head bald and gleaming, his face icy even in the heat.

"Elaine," Frankie's father said. "Why don't you get the boy some water?"

"Oh," Elaine didn't look him in the eyes. She never seemed to. "That sounds fine, Fra—Mr. Fontaine."

"Hello, Papa," Frankie could feel his own timidity like a fog.

"Son," Frank Fontaine, Sr. returned. He sat beside Frankie and laced his hands between each other. Frankie tried to imitate this action, and his father chuckled.

"You seem very attached to your aunt, Frank."

"I-I love her very much, Papa."

His father nodded somberly. "You do know that she will not always be around here, don't you? Like back in the house, you cannot always expect her to be there. You must be able to take care of yourself."

"Why wouldn't she be with me, Papa?"

Instead of answering, his father asked him, his tone deathly serious, "Frank, I'm going to ask you a very mature question. Can you answer it for me?"

Frankie blinked. "Y-Yes, Papa. I think so."

"Do you know who you are, son?"

The little boy dropped his eyes. "I'm Frankie, sir."

"You are a Fontaine, son."

That seems to answer everything, Frankie thought sourly as his father continued. "Our ancestors came on the Mayflower as servants, and yet we became governors, estate owners, shopkeepers. A Fontaine, Frank, welcomes opposition and feeds on a challenge like his life's blood. He despises the weak and rises above the mediocre. Every challenge can be trampled. Any enemy ruined. Wherever you go in life, son, be it the highest peak or the depths of the ocean remember that you are a Fontaine."

"But Papa—"

"That is why we are having this portrait painted, son. It is for you. For you to keep and always remember who your family is."

"It's really for me, Papa? You're making it for me?"

"Yes, if you'll pose for it like a good little boy."

Frankie, the desire for approval deep inside him, nodded fervently.

Frank smiled back at his son. "Good. I'm glad we spoke about this."

But as Frankie headed back into the house, anxiety hit him hard. How was he going to keep still enough to keep both Jean-Claude and his father satisfied?

Aunt Elaine pulled him aside as soon as he came through the door. "Frankie," she said in a soothing voice. "Would you like me to read to you while you pose? I can read more about the Greek myths that you like so much."

Frankie's eyes lit up. The idea of listening to his Aunt's harmonious voice made the thought of standing for hours much more bearable.

So, as his father had bid, Frankie stood for his portrait in an exemplary manner for a boy of his age. It was also then he decided he would love his aunt forever and, as with most little boys who admire a woman, resolved that he would grow up and marry her. They would live in his old tree house back in the Bronx...

* * *

This house was big to Frankie, but it seemed to grow even larger at night. But he was thirsty, and the kitchen was down the stairs and across the house. Frankie told himself not to be afraid. He had his favorite stuffed dog with him, after all, and robbers were afraid of dogs.

Still, he padded down the dark steps quickly, eager to get his drink and get back into bed. He stopped at his father's study, however, when he saw the lights on and heard voices. That was odd; his father would always go to bed not long after him. Frankie's curiosity overcame his fear as he peeped into the keyhole.

Aunt Elaine was in there, and she was crying. Frankie didn't like to see her cry. It was like he was looking at a fallen angel, her mascara trickling down her cheeks and her bronze hair tangled from her running her fingers through it in distress. A fallen angel in deep distress.

Frankie spotted his father, his back turned from the boy, and it was he who was speaking.

"It pains me to do this, Elaine. But you must leave. People are starting to ask questions. I cannot allow that—not so close to this new bill passing. A scandal such as this would ruin me. Ruin everything I've built. And where would young Frank be then? Back in the Bronx? In that—that _shack_? No, I will not allow it."

"Don't you dare pretend that this is for Frankie! This is about you and your greed! Your...your lust for power."

"Think what you will. That changes nothing, true or no."

"You can't do this to me! To _us_! He's my son, too, Frank!"

"No, he is not. He is the son of me and my wife."

"That's bull, you son of a—"

"I can't have you being emotional right now, Elaine. It makes people irrational. You may do or say something you will regret."

"I don't care! I don't _care!_ You can't take him from me! You can't keep my little boy away from me! You try, and I will personally end this masquerade. This stupid secret that's been going on for years. How do you expect to become governor, Frank, if this comes into light?"

"I am immensely sorry to hear you say this."

Frankie pulled his head away from the peephole abruptly. He started to run up the stairs as his aunt screamed, "What are you doing? Get away from me! Frank, NO!"

And a sound so loud it hurt Frankie's ears blew from the office. Frankie didn't know what it was, but he knew it would be best to keep away from his father just then.

That was, until the light exploded into the hallway. "Frankie!"

Frankie looked back to see Elaine staggering toward him, blood pouring from her neck. Frankie had once fallen out of his tree house and cut his knees. He had thought that had been a lot of blood. Frankie realized now he was wrong. So very, very, wrong.

Frankie's father appeared, the rifle he would go hunting with in his hands. His eyes widened when they set on Frankie, who was clutching his stuffed dog, his eyes starting to fill with tears of fear and confusion. Then his father looked to Elaine, who was now in a crawl for the boy, and they hardened into a look of determination.

"Son," his father said. "Would you kindly go back to bed? Your aunt is not feeling well and needs to be taken to a hospital."

Frankie was frozen. His only registry of "not feeling well" was a stomach ache. Not this. Never this.

"Frankie..." Elaine's accordant voice was pained and struggled. "Come to me...please."

"Papa..." Frankie started to ask in a cracked sob.

"Get away from here, Frank," his father boomed. _"NOW!"_

Just a child, Frankie was. Only eight at this terrible event. A child that was caught between love and a desire for approval. A desperate desire for approval.

Frankie, tears falling freely from his face, turned away from Elaine and stepped back up the stairs to his room slowly. Once up the stairs, he bolted for his room and buried his face in a pillow.

A second gunshot sounded little after.

* * *

Frank Fontaine quietly puffed on his cigar. A "Frankie" no longer, he closely resembled his father: in stature, in success, and in fear. Even surpassing in the last, as he had gained the title for Rapture's "boogeyman."

The blue of the ocean glowed behind him as he sat in the dark of his office. The smoke of the cigar quietly thickened the air. His head ached from the large amount of gin he had consumed the other night. It had been a long day. He was having trouble getting the Little Sisters to produce enough ADAM to meet demand. Not only that, but Tenenbaum was giving him grief over the children. And, of course, Ryan's men putting the screws on his smuggling operation.

A long, long day.

Yet, apparently, it was not enough. The intercom buzzed and his secretary announced that Dr. Suchong was on his way in.

The doors swooshed open and the Chinaman strode in. Fluorescent lights poured in from the lobby and Fontaine winced slightly.

"Hangover?" Suchong asked in a thick Mandarin accent.

Fontaine responded with a colorful swear that only made the doctor smile. "You are under considerable stress," he said. "Suchong have remedy, you know."

"Pass," Fontaine rubbed his face in annoyance and exhaustion. "What do ya got?"

"Present." Suchong set a bulky bag on the table. Fontaine regarded it with passive curiosity, then looked at Suchong, who waited for Fontaine to open it. Shaking his head, Fontaine complied, and opened the bag. Then fell back in shock.

"Suchong? What the—!"

Suchong, looking fully content with Fontaine's reaction, shut the bag with the puppy's corpse in it. He smiled at Fontaine. "Suchong just thought you should have tangible evidence of Jack's progress. You, after all, did request it."

Another swear, but Fontaine had regained his composure. "So the kid killed the dog after all?"

"All it took was W-Y-K trigger phrase and, yes, all went according to plan."

"Still, it's too bad. Took a lot of arm twistin' to get that mutt for the kid." And a part of Fontaine had to ask, "How's he taking it?"

Suchong shrugged. "Boy is smart. Boy is strong. Boy is... psychologically conflicted. He seems to respond best when you are present. Perhaps to make Papa Frank proud? You give kid puppy. Kid kills puppy. Kid thinks he's let you down." Another shrug. "He will remember nothing, anyway."

"Yea..." Fontaine was momentarily silenced. Then he shakes himself. "Whatever. Get this thing out of my office and get back to the kid." A slight pause. "And give him a little treat after dinner tonight."

Suchong looked at Fontaine with surprised inquisition, who smiled sinisterly back. "Gotta test Code Yellow tomorrow," the business man replied to the look, "I want him to have _full_ strength."

This made even the cold doctor shutter slightly, and Fontaine felt pleased with himself.

"Well, for record's sake," Suchong passed him an audio diary and headed toward the door.

"And, Suchong?" Fontaine called.

Suchong paused at the threshold. "Yes?"

"Make sure Mother Goose hears nothin' about this, got it?"

Suchong nodded quickly and exited with haste, eager to return to the light, as always, after a meeting with Fontaine.

Fontaine stared at the audio diary for a long while. He didn't need to listen to it to know the words, almost to the exact letter. Yet, he felt a drawing toward it. He wanted to hear it for himself...

In retrospect, it would have been better if he had just thrown the Acu-Vox into his safe and had never thought of it again. Because Fontaine heard nothing of Suchong's order, nor little Jack's pleas, nor the puppy's last whimpers of life. Instead, he heard the deep boom of his father in the "would you kindly", his own pleas, and Elaine's final, dying wish.

_"Come to me...please..."_

In a rush of emotion, Fontaine hurled the audio diary across the room.

…And watched it land directly below his family portrait.

Fontaine had brought this painting down to Rapture with him for two reasons. First, to remind himself to never to fall under anyone's con again. Because that's all he saw his family as now: a cheat, a swindle, a lie. He had never had an "aunt." His bogus mother hadn't even been related to him in the least. She had just been a pretty face with a good name to keep his father looking respectable. Elaine had just been that loose end from his past. Of course people would start asking questions about two sisters who looked nothing alike.

Fontaine saw his father as a hack now—nothing but an amateur, and Fontaine had just allowed himself to fall into the lie like a sucker. No, Fontaine would never be put in that position again. He would not become vulnerable like that ever again.

The second reason for the portrait's presence was much more private; Fontaine wouldn't even admit it to himself. He kept the portrait because, somewhere, part of him still grieved his biological mother's murder deeply. The portrait wasn't about the actual picture, with his daunting father, fake mother, and little Frankie with his hands tangled nervously together. It was about the memory.

Fontaine would look at the portrait and see the last day he had had with Elaine: posing for a useless portrait with a temperamental Frenchman in stuffy clothing...and Elaine, her harmonious voice telling tragic Greek mythology.

And to any that knew this man's own tragic tale? They would see a childhood chastity lost.


End file.
